


Silent Night ❄️

by murderlight



Category: Bleach
Genre: Always blankets, Blankets, Christmas, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sickfic, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28262040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murderlight/pseuds/murderlight
Summary: Ichigo wasn’t completely sorry he’d caught the flu at Christmas.
Relationships: Grimmjow Jaegerjaques/Kurosaki Ichigo
Comments: 65
Kudos: 531
Collections: GrimIchi Secret Santa Exchange 2020





	Silent Night ❄️

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SenkiroWolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkiroWolf/gifts).



> Merry Christmas SenkiroWolf!! I'm your Secret Santa 💜 I tried to hit all the points in the request, so I hope you enjoy it!!

Ichigo wasn’t completely sorry he’d caught the flu at Christmas.

Sure the recurring fever sucked, his throat was killing him and all the drugs in the world couldn’t unblock his right nostril, but with the gift-giving all done the night before, the only thing left was Urahara’s annual Christmas party and Ichigo just wasn’t feeling it that year. Did it make him a bit of a grinch? Maybe, but the mayhem and noise of the shop coupled with the invitations issued to Las Noches’ best and brightest meant it was probably going to get rowdy. Privately, Ichigo couldn’t believe Isshin was taking Yuzu and Karin in the first place, even with Kon keeping an eye out. But they were eighteen and insistent on experiencing the full spectrum of their messed up bloodlines, and what was one overprotective father in the face of that resolve?

The arrangements meant that Ichigo had the house to himself on the evening of the twenty-fifth, with a slow cooker full of chicken soup to dip into whenever he wanted and all the tissues he could handle.

For the first few hours, Ichigo did his usual routine, minus a lot of energy. Picking out his thickest and most comfortable sweats, socks and hoodie took a really long time, as did his blistering shower in which he tried desperately to suck back as much vapour and steam as he could. Predictably, his nostril did not budge an inch. Maybe breathing clearly was just a fond memory, like sleeping through the night without drugs.

After that, Ichigo felt like bed was for sick people, which he absolutely wasn’t, so he dragged the biggest and heaviest blanket out of the storage box and hauled it onto the living room couch with him, feeling kind of shaky and drained by the time he had it spread all over the couch ready for burrowing into. Outside the sky looked kind of belligerent and mysterious, which mirrored Ichigo’s feelings completely.

Collapsing into his new nest of blankets, tired and full of soup, Ichigo blew his nose violently into a tissue and started to scroll Netflix until his head stopped pounding with the pressure. He’d take a hearty Aizen monologue any day before a flu. At least he’d stopped pretty quickly when a bit of force was applied. Influenza? Undefeated.

Ichigo was finally settling on something called _Don’t Fuck With Cats_ when the swell of immense hollow reiatsu burst across his addled senses, seeming really damn close to the house.

“Oh, come on. It’s fucking Christmas,” Ichigo croaked to himself, hauling his tired carcass out of the blanket burrito he’d just perfected. “That had better not be who I think it is.” He didn’t even want to say his name in case it summoned him like some kind of ghost of Christmas past.

He was just staggering toward the entrance hallway when the doorbell rang. In that same direction, a massive wall of spiritual pressure was looming, dormant and on lazy display. But really? The doorbell? It couldn’t be Grimmjow. Nel, maybe. Harribel…definitely not.

It absolutely was Grimmjow; visible through the glass insert on the thankfully locked front door was a sprout of blue hair and a pair of even bluer eyes glaring into the darkness of the entrance. Ichigo hacked a series of short, painful coughs into his elbow and approached to unlock the door. There was no way Grimmjow would try to force a fight while he looked the way he did, and that bedrock knowledge was what took all his tension away as he opened the door to his once-enemy, sometimes ally and current Christmas visitor.

“Thought you’d just burst through the wall like every other hollow who visits,” Ichigo rasped. “Merry Christmas. Thanks for using the doorbell.”

“Doorbell?” Grimmjow repeated, scrubbing at his hair with an agitated hand. “I saw a button and I pushed it.” His eyes scanned Ichigo from head to toe, slow and careful. It was the look of someone committing something to memory. “They said you were sick.”

“Yeah.”

“You look like shit.”

“Yeah,” Ichigo agreed limply. Grimmjow’s mouth jerked strangely and he jammed his hands into his pockets. He was still wearing that old black jumpsuit and jacket.

“You dying?” The question was curious. Blinking at Grimmjow’s tall figure, feeling the blast of freezing air blow in around him, Ichigo wondered in what world a flu in a normally healthy twenty-two year old could seem life threatening.

“Not yet. I’ll be okay in a few days.”

Grimmjow’s mouth twitched down. “Won’t be here that long. Been a few fuckin’ years since I saw you and I finally get topside again to fight just to find you looking like warmed-up ass.”

“Sorry,” Ichigo said automatically. The word was hoarse with the brilliant ache in his throat. “Urahara and the others will be able to entertain you, they always put on a great—” He broke off as a new tickle in his chest gave way to a wracking explosion of coughing, the kind that made his lungs burn and his muscles ache. The doorway tilted a little, or maybe he did.

“Fucking hell,” Grimmjow said in disgust, pushing him back and stepping inside the house. The heavy front door closed with a bang behind him. Ichigo was too busy trying to catch his breath to protest at the sound of Grimmjow’s boots being pulled off and dumped on the floor. He was— But he couldn’t— “Come on, asshole. You got any alcohol in this place? Honey?”

“What?” Ichigo wheezed, trying to process his meaning, but was immediately startled as two hands clapped down on his shoulders and forcefully turned him towards the inside of the house, steering him like a puppet until they were both standing in the living room together. Ichigo’s mind raced. Grimmjow had invited himself in and was—pushing him towards the couch?

“Get in those blankets.” He shoved hard enough to make Ichigo stumble and half-fall into the side of the couch, already turning towards the kitchen with way too much determination. “Family left you to die over here.”

“I’m not going to die,” Ichigo said feebly, but didn’t have the brainpower to do more than stand there like an idiot as Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez went through his kitchen cupboards looking for…what had he mentioned? Alcohol and honey. “My dad won’t like you drinking his whiskey.”

“S’not for me.” Reaching into the top cupboard with lanky ease, Grimmjow pulled down a bottle that sloshed with amber liquid. His slanted glare was fierce. “I told you to get in the fucking blankets. Do it before I break your arms.”

“But—”

“Kurosaki.”

Reluctantly concerned by the tone of his voice, Ichigo retreated to the couch and threw his blankets back around his aching body. So much for a quiet night of recuperation at home.

Whatever Grimmjow was doing seemed to include the stovetop, various items from the pantry and a giant salad spoon he seemed to like the look of. More than once Ichigo was busted staring and received either a stony glare or a raised middle finger in reply. The idea that Grimmjow was both in his house and _cooking_ something seemed more like a delirious fever dream, which wasn’t at all out of the question. Was he sicker than he realised?

Grimmjow seemed to think so; he came back after ten minutes with a huge steaming mug of some concoction and an expression that said if Ichigo tried to refuse it he might actually start snapping bones. His eyes flickered over the blankets wrapped around Ichigo and narrowed a little, but he didn’t say anything. Ichigo took the mug in silence and peered into it. He couldn’t smell or taste much, so unless it was poisoned it probably wouldn’t be that terrible.

“What is it?” Ichigo rasped after taking his first cautious sip. There was a burn after swallowing that said there was a fair bit of alcohol in it. There was also the impression that it was sweet. “Where did you learn to make it?”

“Don’t know.” Grimmjow thumped himself down on the couch so hard Ichigo lurched a little. He glared at the television screen, still held on whatever documentary Ichigo had been about to watch. “I don’t remember a lot about my human days, but sick people died pretty fuckin’ often. Drink that shit already.”

“I am.” Ichigo took a performative gulp that burned his throat a little. “So it’s an old remedy. When were you alive? You don’t seem like you’re from another time.”

“S’because of how long it takes to get your mind back. Hardly anyone really remembers who they were. Gotta keep your eyes looking forward if you want to survive as a hollow. Start looking back too long and you get all fucked up.” Seeming to realise how much he’d just said, Grimmjow’s eyes slitted. His arms crossed. “Always need a goal.”

So Grimmjow might not even know when he was alive, Ichigo guessed, staring down into his mug. It was just a watery mixture, but it was already softening the edges of the room. He kept drinking for a while, stopping to turn his face away and cough occasionally.

“It’s you, if you didn’t guess.” Grimmjow said the words to the television, where the multicoloured string lights on the Christmas tree were reflecting on its surface. A muscle in his jaw jumped a little. “I still want that fight.”

Ichigo thought about it.

“Good,” he finally husked. “I do, too. When you didn’t come back here after the war, I thought maybe you’d gotten over it.” Hesitating a moment, Ichigo confessed, “I asked Urahara about your injuries, back then. Maybe we’re kind of the same.”

Grimmjow snorted. “So you would’ve bandaged me up, huh? Nursed me back to health?”

“You’d never let me.”

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

“I wouldn’t need to,” Ichigo said awkwardly. “Since, you know…Inoue’s powers and everything.” His non-answer didn’t do him any favours. Grimmjow scowled all the harder at the television. Internally Ichigo was still reeling that they were sitting on a couch together with only a thick blanket and a little space separating them, talking about previous lives and nursing and there wasn’t a drop of aggression between them. Maybe it was even the opposite. Or the alcohol was hitting Ichigo’s stomach. It _had_ been a long time since they’d seen each other, and it was Christmas, and it was quiet and the room was warm and Ichigo was kind of sleepy. Grimmjow making him a healing drink. He really was dedicated to his goals, after all.

“I saved you once when you were in trouble,” Ichigo found himself croaking out. “It wasn’t just because Nnoitra pulled a cowardly move. I knew we’d have our rematch eventually, and I wanted it. I guess I’d bandage you up if the circumstances were around the other way. Thanks for making this for me.” He took another huge sip and focussed on drinking so he didn’t accidentally do something stupid like smile at Grimmjow. There was a precarious camaraderie in the air and he didn’t want to ruin it. Maybe it was that holiday spirit people talked about.

“Forget it. Can’t let you drop dead on me from some shitty illness.”

“I’d never do that to you.”

Grimmjow’s mouth curled up. “Good. What’s this cat movie? Put it on.”

“You don’t want to go back to the party? I’ll just end up falling asleep on you.”

“I got strong shoulders.”

Ichigo didn’t feel a single impulse to explain he hadn’t meant he’d sleep _on_ Grimmjow, too charmed by the immediate response to do more than chew his lip and stare into his mug.

“Do you want some chicken soup? It’s not festive but Yuzu made heaps. You can have as much as you want.”

“That what I smelled in there?” Grimmjow actually looked interested. He scanned Ichigo’s face and something complicated passed through his expression. “Give me that cup back. One more load of it and you’ll sleep through the night. I’m gonna get soup.”

That was how they ended up sitting together on the couch with steaming bowls of soup and mugs of Grimmjow’s strange cure-all drink, watching what actually ended up being an appalling documentary about a budding serial killer posting cruel videos online. Amazingly, Grimmjow was riveted by the content and didn’t move an inch for the first thirty minutes, tossing his spoon away and drinking soup from the rim of his bowl. He’d even taken off his sword and belts to place on the floor beside the couch. With one ankle crossed over his knee and a lazy recline back into the couch cushions, Grimmjow looked entirely at home inside the Kurosaki house. A little like he belonged there.

“I think I’m drunk,” Ichigo announced hoarsely at the end of the first part. “And I really have to pee all this liquid out. Don’t hit play until I’m back.” He tried to fight his way out of the blanket, a little defeated by it until Grimmjow reached over and pulled on the edge tucked under Ichigo’s ass. He also pulled apart the layers like he was unwrapping some kind of present, except inside it was just Ichigo’s virus-ridden body covered in ugly casual wear. For some bizarre reason the sight of him all exposed and pathetic made Grimmjow’s face soften a little.

“You really are human, huh?”

“I swear you knew that.”

“Guess so. Go take a piss already.”

It was while Ichigo was taking the aforementioned piss, feeling pretty relaxed and sleepy that he looked up out the frosted glass of the window and squinted. Was that…? Well, holy shit. Flu or no flu, he had to get out and see _that_. Ichigo flushed, washed and almost ran out into the living room, where Grimmjow half-rose from his seat in alarm at the look on his face.

“What? What’s—”

“It’s snowing,” Ichigo croaked, rushing over to grab up his blanket and swing it around his shoulders like a cape. “Snow. On Christmas. It hasn’t done this in years. C’mon, we’re going outside.”

“Like _hell_ you’re going out,” Grimmjow spat, swiping out for the blanket and missing. Ichigo used the small window of opportunity to run through the house towards the back door, hoping Grimmjow’s unfamiliarity with the layout would slow him down. Flipping the locks, stuffing his feet into the slippers by the door, Ichigo pushed his way out into the back garden, flipping on the golden outdoor floodlight so he could see. Clutching his blanket close around himself, Ichigo tipped his face to the sky.

Christmas snow fell in soft silence, swirling thickly in the air. The ground was already almost obscured by a thin white layer. It had been snowing for a while. It was absolutely freezing outside, but it didn’t stop Ichigo from sticking his tongue out to catch a few flakes. There was nobody to laugh at him for acting like a kid. Nobody except Grimmjow, who barged outside so fast he almost knocked the screen door from its hinges. He pulled up short when he saw what was happening with the weather.

“Oh, fuck that,” Grimmjow said starkly, rearing back up against the wall of the house where the eaves sheltered him. His pupils were massive as he stared at the sky. “Kurosaki, get your infected ass back in here.”

“You come out,” Ichigo countered with a smile. Unearthing one hand, he opened his palm to the snowflakes dancing around him. “It’s just snow. Have you ever seen it before?”

“I know what it is,” Grimmjow said tightly, completely avoiding the question. He held out one hand. “Come on, asshole. You’re fucking sick.”

“You’ll have to come out and get me,” Ichigo replied, feeling a bit mischievous despite his flagging energy. He really shouldn’t be out there, but Grimmjow’s sudden tetchy reaction to the snow was giving him ideas. To keep him safe and healthy enough to recover, would he walk out into the horrifying new weather? Ichigo was possessed by the sudden instinct that Grimmjow absolutely would. He opened his blanket up like a pair of wings, exposing his body. “I’ll share my blanket with you if you’re worried.”

“Close that,” Grimmjow snarled, wavering as he glared from Ichigo, to the snow, to his own socked feet and back. “You’re gonna—fucking hell.” He took one leap across the yard and landed in front of Ichigo, shielding him with his own body. When he tried to pull the blanket closed again, Ichigo did something both daring and extremely dumb. He shuffled right up against Grimmjow’s half-exposed chest and ensconced him inside an enormous blanket hug, wrapping them up together inside the sudden snow shower.

“Now the snow can’t get you,” Ichigo said helpfully, feeling entirely tipsy and a little dizzy from his own actions. “Well. Except for your head.”

“Stupid asshole,” Grimmjow muttered, standing inside the ring of Ichigo’s arms with all the casual ease of an iron poker. He was keeping his head tilted down to avoid getting snow in his eyes. The angle dropped his face the required inches needed to almost touch their noses together. Against Ichigo’s sides, hands shifted near his waist. Grimmjow’s mouth thinned. “Fine. I’m in the fucking snow. I hate it and you’re going to get sicker. Let’s go.”

“Can’t we just stand here for a second?” Ichigo asked, losing his voice for a moment right in the middle of his question. It made Grimmjow snort a little, which made Ichigo squeeze him a little, which put them about as close as two people could stand. It was awful how nice it was. Awful because Ichigo was a germ-ridden, weak and feverish excuse for a human, to the point that even someone like Grimmjow felt the need to help him out a little. Awful because despite all of that, Ichigo was sort of touched that anyone who wasn’t obligated to would stick around and keep him company for the night, instead of being somewhere else having fun.

“You done yet?” Grimmjow quietly asked a moment later, looking out at the streetlights. There were snowflakes gathering on his toothed mask and sifting through his hair. “It’s just some cold shit falling out of the sky. You’ve seen it before.”

“Not with you, I haven’t.”

“So?”

“So it’s Christmas, it’s snowing, and my favourite ex-enemy is worried I’m going to drop dead.” Tipping his head back so he could see more clearly, Ichigo frowned a little. “Shouldn’t you want me to get sicker and die? Then I’d be a shinigami permanently.” Despite the relative logic in his question, Grimmjow’s whole face darkened. Ichigo felt hands grab his waist from inside the blankets and squeeze almost hard enough to bruise.

“Because you’re mine, asshole.” Grimmjow leaned in so close his exhale became Ichigo’s next breath. His eyes, black in the shadows, filled up the entire world. His hands flexed, just enough to feel Ichigo’s hipbones beneath his skin. “I’m not letting you wither and die from some stupid human virus before I get to beat you.”

“So you’re going to pour fun drinks down my throat and protect me from the snow?” His voice was fading again, mostly whisper and rasp by then. He knew Grimmjow could still understand him. “I don’t know, that seems kind of protective. I do all the protecting around here.” Turning his head slightly, he coughed around the rough prickle in the depths of his throat. It crackled a little wetly, and something about that sound made Grimmjow react strangely.

“You don’t even protect yourself.” The muttered words preceded the hands that stroked over Ichigo’s feverish brow, brushing his forehead, his temple, his cheek. When he finally pulled back to glare at him, Ichigo finally began to really entertain the idea that he was having a dream. There was something indecipherably, angrily tender in Grimmjow’s deep gaze. “This isn’t the first time I’ve healed you up so we can fight, just the first time I gotta do it by hand. You get it?”

Did he get it? What was there to get about being nursed back to health by an arrancar with cool, calloused hands and a willingness to stand in a shitty snow shower with him just because he liked snow on Christmas? Someone who talked about defeating him in battle but who couldn’t bear to leave him in the cold while his cough grew worse? The two didn’t seem to walk hand in hand any more than they did. And yet…Grimmjow’s expression said they could. They were. It made Ichigo think new thoughts.

It made him rediscover a few old ones, too.

Whatever Grimmjow saw on Ichigo’s face for those scant moments between confusion and revelation must have given him away, because the hands that had been checking his fever returned to tug on his messy hair and lift his face to the fluttering flakes of ice, allowing a few to settle on his lips before they were melted by the unexpected pressure of Grimmjow’s mouth.

What an incredible Christmas, Ichigo thought dizzily, softening the clench of his jaw and returning the kiss with a small upward push of his slippered toes. Behind Grimmjow’s neck, Ichigo tightened his blanket-draped grip and tried desperately to taste anything he could commit to memory. It absolutely didn’t work, but Grimmjow did bite him pretty hard as he pulled away and that was almost as good.

“What else are you…gonna surprise me with?” Ichigo eventually panted, his nostril still blocked to hell and his lungs straining for oxygen. “I think I’m ready for anything now.” The breeze picked up slightly, just enough to expose the fold in the blanket and freeze Ichigo’s legs. “Maybe we should go back in. I need a fresh blanket that’s big enough for us both.”

Grimmjow was rubbing at his own bottom lip like he couldn’t believe his own actions. The look he tilted Ichigo was a little incredulous.

“Both?”

“Yeah, both. You offered your shoulder for me to sleep on, remember? Don’t be a dick and take it back now. It’s Christmas.”

“All I’m hearing is you’re ready to go inside without being dragged,” Grimmjow said flatly. “Can sleep in my fuckin’ lap if you’re going to get us out of this shitty weather.” Without another word, like he absolutely hadn’t just said the best string of words Ichigo had ever heard, Grimmjow burst out of the blanket hug and turned back towards the back door, ripping his sodden socks off with a curse and bare-footing it into the house like a psychopath. Ichigo hurried to follow, too excited by the prospect of holding Grimmjow to his word.

Okay, yeah, he still felt like death and the adrenaline of that kiss was going to wear off really damn soon. And sure, his voice was almost gone and he couldn’t smell or taste anything about Grimmjow, who seemed to want to kiss him for fun and not as a fight thing. But knowing there was a big chance that Ichigo could get both of those things all the time?

That was the kind of Christmas gift he could get on board with.

**Author's Note:**

> the drink grimmjow made is undoubtedly familiar to a lot of you: the old fashioned [hot toddy](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hot_toddy). if it doesn't cure you, it'll knock your ass out. (a bit like grimmjow himself.)


End file.
